


kisses

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, so the usual, thasmin, thasmin being a gay mess, the fam go to a new years party, thirteen in a tux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: inspiration taken from the release date trailer and thirteen's bedroom eyes for yazfor gee bc shes p cool
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 121





	kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yasminkhxns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasminkhxns/gifts).



“ _Kisses._ It’s quite French, that, isn’t it?” The Doctor turns mid-phrase, brows lifting in question, but it’s the rhetoric kind. The corners of her lips flirt with the laughter lines gracing her features in a coy smirk. 

Her eyes glisten in a fashion usually reserved for stolen glances when Yaz isn’t looking, but now, bared directly to her expression, Yaz loses all sense of language. 

“Mm, yeah. S’pose,” Yaz whispers minutes later, aware the energetic alien has already changed topic three times since. She can hear the faint snort from Ryan at the other side of the console room. She knows it’s aimed at her before she even spares a glance his way. 

“Oh! Fun fact! Did you know — ” the Doctor starts, brushing shoulders with Yaz when she rounds the console to pull a lever to her right. 

She needn’t have used it — Yaz has never seen her lay a finger on the lever before. She’s not going to complain, though, when the warm, tux-clad alien settles quite comfortably at her side for the remainder of the journey. 

“Did we know _what,_ Doc?” Graham reminds her politely when the Doctor shows no sign of continuing her question.

Having landed her ship with less carnage than usual, the Doctor admires the glisten to Yaz’s blazer in the reflection of the TARDIS’s scanner. Graham’s voice pulls her from her daze and her cheeks flare, but she reigns in her composure in no time. “ — Oh! French kissing involves thirty-four facial muscles! Brilliant, isn’t it?” 

“Bet you and Yaz would know a thing or two about that,” Ryan whispers quietly, but it’s loud enough for flames to lick at Yaz’s cheeks and neck and earn him a glare. 

“So, fam! Ready for the biggest New Year’s party this side of the universe?” The Doctor springs into action, coattails billowing on her childlike dash towards the doors. 

Three confident nods and a brimming smile later, they’re subjected to the grand gardens of a manor house in mid-celebration. Aliens of all kind bustle and linger outside and in, seeping between French doors in a slow current of colour. 

“Come on, there’s no way you two haven’t done anything yet. Have you _seen_ yourselves?” Ryan grimaces, but it’s playful. They’re a handful of steps behind the Doctor and Graham, who chatter between themselves about the upkeep of the pastures surrounding them. “It’s pretty gross how dumb you are for each other.” 

“Ryan!” Yaz shoves her hands into the pockets of her blazer, eyes forward. Her words are whispered while the Doctor works her magic with the psychic paper and allows for their entrance to the grand party. “No, we haven’t.”

“Oh, _mate._ You do know this is the perfect opportunity, right? She’s totally crushing on you. Did you _see_ how she looked at you when she went all _kissing uses a thousand muscles in your face_? You should just drag her away somewhere and snog her,” he responds, shrugging as though it’s the most obvious suggestion on the planet. 

“It’s thirty-four,” Yaz corrects, observing the swish and flick of the Doctor’s coat as she saunters in with the swagger of someone who hadn’t eaten so many pancakes for breakfast she had to take a quick nap before their trip. “And I doubt it’s that easy. This is the Doctor we’re talking about.”

“Still. Worth a try, mate,” Ryan quips, breezing past her to join his grandad in sizing up the buffet. 

“What’s worth a try?” the Doctor interrupts in Ryan’s absence, her hands on her hips, curious green meeting shy brown. 

“The buffet,” Yaz reels off quickly— _too quickly,_ but it seems to do the trick. “Now, what is it we’re meant to be looking out for around here?” 

“Brilliant question, Yaz. Always keeping on track, you,” the blonde beams, straightening out her dotted bow tie under the weight of Yaz’s beaming smile. “First task: keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Second task —” she pauses for effect, lifting a hand to her lips and leaning in as though sharing a secret at the back of the class. Yaz shudders at her proximity. She smells familiar; of engine oil and earl grey and golden syrup on pancakes and space. “— have fun.” 

There’s a glint to her pupils, golden flecks dancing amidst deep green. They flicker oh so briefly south to take in the slow curve of Yaz’s painted lips. “Are you wearing lipstick?”

“Um — yeah, I am,” Yaz wets her lips on instinct, cheeks warming under her piercing gaze. “Thought I’d give it a whirl.” 

“I like it,” the Doctor hums, aware of the redness to the tips of her ears. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne flutes filled with neon green liquid— a distraction in seconds. “Oh! I haven’t had Noral wine in _centuries_ . You’ve _got_ to try this, Yaz. No alcohol, just pure endorphins — it helps your most sociable side come out; makes you more comfortable in these kinds of environments.”

“Like drugs?” Yaz poses, wary. 

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” the blonde answers confidently, handing a glass over. “They haven’t found the secret ingredient yet, but there’s nothing sinister about it, I promise.”

“You know the secret ingredient, don’t you?” Yaz arches a brow, unable to hold back a sly smile. 

“Not at all!” the Doctor laughs, leading the way out of the hallway and into the reception hall where the party is in full swing. Her hand settles against Yaz’s lower back with the first sip of her drink, dancing over the sequins there. “But Banksy might.”

Yaz’s laugh captures the attention of a small gathering of aliens with bluey-green skin and gills just below their jaw. 

The night passes by in a flurry of introductions and polite chatter until the crowds begin diverting into the ballroom, gowns brushing marble floors and heels clicking. 

It’s the seventh occasion that Yaz has had to draw the Doctor away from a conversation for putting her metaphorical weathered boot in it when she slips her fingers between calloused counterparts, and that’s where they remain. 

“So, how long have you two been married?” a middle-aged woman with two heads chimes mid-conversation. 

Yaz has to take a moment to figure out which of the two heads asks the question, therefore where to direct her flustered giggle.

“Oh, we’re not — it’s not like that —” 

“We’re just friends—” 

The Doctor and Yaz answer in unison, earning a scoff of laughter from both heads in turn. 

“You might want to do something about that,” the more expressive of the heads purrs, glancing between their flushed features and interlinked hands. “I don’t have telepathic powers for nothing, ladies.” 

Yaz drains the rest of her glass with her free hand while the Doctor simply gawps. 

“Fancy a breather?” the Doctor hums close to her ear once they’ve dispersed from the largest of the gatherings, cheeks still pink and thoughts still spiralling. She’s been on edge since their last interaction, fidgety and bashful. She squeezes Yaz’s hand in silent communication. “Getting a bit stuffy in here, huh?”

“Please,” Yaz nods, shooting Ryan and Graham a smile from the other side of the hall with five fingers up. She points her thumb towards the doors leading to the grounds and waits for their affirming nods before letting the Doctor lead the way. 

“C’mon, I know the perfect place,” the Doctor whispers conspiratorially on their way through the doors, hand tight in her hold. “I saw it on the way in.”

“So long as there’s no breaking-and-entering, I’m in,” Yaz retorts, although when she really thinks about it, she’d follow her anywhere. 

“I would never disrespect an officer of the law in that way.” Then, the Doctor pauses, wilting under the glare Yaz sends her in her peripheral. “Well, not _this_ time, anyway.” 

The Doctor is right in her observations, as usual, when a winding path of glossy patterned tiles leads them to a row of pergolas leading to a beautifully maintained pavilion. “I knew you’d like it,” the Doctor chimes in shy pride when she glances to her side to find Yaz wide-eyed, lips parted in open awe. 

“It’s beautiful,” Yaz reaches out with her free hand, the pads of her fingers brushing the delicate petals of flowers growing from interweaving vines and stems which curve above their heads. The low rumble of music, shifting feet and laughter dims with each step along the narrow path. “I’m sure this is where you take all the women.”

“No,” the Doctor answers firmly, “Just you.” She ducks her head, blonde locks falling over her shoulders in a makeshift veil. “I’m not really that great with, uh, the whole — what do kids call it these days? — Wooing, maybe?” 

“Never would’ve guessed,” Yaz teases, catching the head of a flower when it loosens and detaches beneath her fingers. 

“Oi! I’m known to be quite the wooer in my past lives, I’ll have you know,” the Doctor skips the last step toward the pavilion, wringing her free hand at her side. Between them, their palms are clammy, but she can’t find it in herself to pull away. 

  
  


“Oh?” Yaz hums, coming to a stop before her, the pastel purple flower cherished between her fingers. She feels emboldened by the telepathic alien’s sure words from earlier and the way the Doctor keeps looking at her as though she put the stars in the sky. “Then woo me.” 

“That’s a Neurelka flower,” the Doctor informs, curling her fingers around Yaz’s when she brushes her fingers over the delicate petals. “They only blossom once in a millennium, and only in the presence of massive levels of hope. Must be a lot of hopeful people at this party, Yaz. May I?” 

Yaz lets go when the Doctor tentatively eases the flower from her grasp, lifting it to tuck into the delicate plait interwoven in a crown around her head. “They say if one falls into your hand, the thing you’re most hoping for will come to fruition.” So the Doctor falters, hand falling to her side, before, “So what are you hoping for, Yasmin Khan?”

“I think you might know the answer to that, Doctor,” Yaz breathes a laugh into the space between them, encouraged closer by a faint tug of her hand. Shadowed eyes lift, flitting between green hues.

“Tell me, _please,”_ the Doctor whispers gently, pleadingly. “Because I _think_ I know, but — well, I’m not always the best at reading things. Unless they’re books. I love books, Yaz.”

Yaz takes one last step forward, reaching up to rest her free hand against the Doctor’s shoulder. She readies herself to lean up on her toes, delighting in the way the Doctor’s words taper off into the surprisingly warm evening air. “Maybe I could show you instead?” 

The Doctor swallows, throat bobbing with the action. She’s a willing victim to whatever sensations Yaz is about to inflict upon her form, her stomach fizzling like a shaken carbonated drink. 

When Yaz leans in, noses almost touching, she sighs into the kiss she predicts might just send her into a new regeneration altogether. 

There’s a scurry of footsteps in their direction just before a piercing scream echoes from the manor house. 

“Sorry, Yaz,” the Doctor murmurs a little breathlessly, grimacing. She reaches up, tentatively, peeling a stray lock of hair from her eyes and sweeping it behind her ear. “Later, though, okay? I promise.”

Under the guise of a group of monks from the planet Valkos, a troop of androids raid the celebratory auction for an ancient souvenir stolen from their emperor. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, with the Doctor’s knack for getting into trouble, that _she_ was the one to bid for the lustrous golden goblet. 

By the time the party has settled again, minus a row of burnt-out paintings and the majority of the buffet (much to Graham’s chagrin), the Doctor is relieved to settle herself atop a table in the corner, swinging her legs, and watch on as Ryan, Graham and Yaz out-cringe each other with their exaggerated dance moves. 

Instead of thinking too hard about the possible and inevitable loss of the warm, gooey feeling in her chest when she observes, the Doctor slips from the table, drains a glass of Noral wine, and waltzes over with a dopey grin. 

Yaz melts into the Doctor’s arm when it swings over her shoulders, reaching up with one hand to tangle their fingers together. When she turns to smile at her, bright and wide and _happy_ she finds the silly alien already offering a gleeful one in return. “Everything okay? You looked a bit spaced out back there.”

“Everything’s _brilliant,”_ the Doctor chimes in a fashion which should be deemed illegal in several solar systems. “Got my fam, got my Yaz. _Brilliant_.”

“Oi, Doc,” Graham starts, fixing his bow tie while Ryan twists and moonwalks at his side. “Show us your best moves.” 

“Oh, it’s on,” the Doctor leaps into action, breathing a quick apology into the shell of Yaz’s ear and missing the way her breathing falters when she skids just in front of them. 

When Yaz puts the Doctor and dancing together, she hadn’t expected for her to have such swagger. She’s pleasantly proven wrong when, instead of gangly, clumsy limbs, the Doctor shimmies and salsas lithe curves with confidence alongside a laughing, somewhat drunken Ryan. 

Her robot leaves something to be desired, though. 

They amble into the TARDIS with the grace of drunken fools, but it’s not alcohol infiltrating their systems. 

The Doctor pirouettes around the console as she pilots her sentient ship into flight, humming a catchy tune while Ryan and Graham giggle between themselves and Yaz rounds to the Doctor’s side. 

“What a night, fam!” the Doctor enthuses, bumping shoulders with Yaz before she loops an arm over her shoulder once more. 

Yaz sinks into her side, anchored by her hold with a giddy smile on her face. 

Cheekily, Ryan offers a thumbs up to his school friend. 

“Definitely one for the history books, Doc. I’m all waltzed out,” Graham affirms, leaning against the nearest railing with tired eyes but a grin on his face only usually coaxed from the sight of a cup of tea after a long day. 

“Think I’m going to call it a night, too, mate. That moonwalk competition murdered my legs.” Ryan reaches down, giving his right calf a rub.

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser, Ry,” the Doctor remarks with a smirk, eyes glistening with humour. She swipes her thumb over Yaz’s knuckles idly once their hands are intertwined at her shoulder again. “I learnt from the best.”

Ryan gawps. “Michael Jackson?”

“God, no. Michelle Obama.” The blonde beams. “She’s a right laugh.” 

“You’ve met Michelle Obama?” Yaz probes, mouth agape. 

“‘Course I have. I’ve got her number, too, if you’d like it?” the Doctor turns, her sole focus on the woman cocooned under her arm. Her smile is laced with giddy energy and Ryan doesn’t miss the way her gaze flits between Yaz’s eyes and mouth. “I bet she’d like you.”

“Goodnight ladies,” Graham murmurs seconds away from the door to the corridor, Ryan in tow. “Thanks for a great evening, Doc.”

At the sound of their retreating forms, the Doctor drags her gaze away from her counterpart to wave them off. “Goodnight, boys. Oh! And happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year, Doctor,” both men quip in return. Ryan meets Yaz’s gaze with a knowing smirk and a mouthed _get in there!_ which she simply blushes at, cheek warm against the Doctor’s shoulder. 

Their footsteps turn to faint echoes before the Doctor turns back, a shy hand lifting to hover at Yaz’s waist before it settles against the sequined black fabric. “So,”

“So,” Yaz repeats with a giggle, dropping the hand previously woven with the Doctor’s own to brush invisible dust from the lapels of her jacket. “You mentioned French kissing earlier.”

“I did, yeah,” the Doctor hums, closing the distance between them to cradle Yaz’s cheek in her palm. She almost melts when she leans into her hold, filling the space between her fingers with a flutter of her lashes and a silent keen. She swallows heavily whiles she works out her next words, placing them in careful order so she doesn’t jumble them and end up reciting the dictionary instead. “Want me to show you how it’s done?” 

“I think I’d like that,” Yaz whispers, tongue swiping along her bottom lip. The last thing she wants is for the Doctor to find her lips too dry. 

When the Doctor nods, goofy and warm and blushing, then skirts the tip of her cold nose along Yaz’s, her counterpart sighs out a breath, eyes drooping closed. 

She doesn’t kiss her straight away, breaths falling in a slow breeze against her lips while her head tilts and Yaz’s free hand settles just under her jaw. 

Then there’s a delicious pressure, and the Doctor is taking her apart cell-by-cell until she responds in kind. 

The Doctor is _kissing_ her. 

The _Doctor_ is _kissing_ her. 

Yaz breathes the faintest of hums against the onslaught of warm, pink lips when her own move in tandem, head tilted to the left so their noses slot and brush with each shift of lips. Her nerves are tingling, set alight by the Doctor’s unconsciously fluttering pulse which resonates beneath her fingers. 

She should never have doubted the Doctor’s ability to kiss, rendered jelly-legged and dough-brained in seconds. She doesn’t know when they moved, but the console is at her back, now, and the Doctor skirts her tongue along her bottom lip to request entrance. 

When her wish is granted, the Doctor down-right _purrs,_ tongue sweeping into her mouth to map every crevice with the curiosity only she could radiate. 

Unfortunately for Yaz, though, human lung capacity isn’t as great without a respiratory bypass, or so it’s called, so with a gentle push, she draws their lips apart, but keeps their foreheads nestled while she refills her lungs. 

“Everything okay?” the Doctor whispers, thumb drawing circles against high cheekbones. 

“Y— yeah, just — you know, _human lungs,”_ Yaz sighs, and, once recomposed, leans in to capture those smirking lips once more. 

The Doctor giggles when she tilts her head so her lips are just out of reach, earning a keening huff from Yaz. 

“Come _on_ ,” Yaz murmurs, slipping her hand beneath the Doctor’s coat to brush her hip through her shirt. “Again, please.”

“Mm, let me just —” the Doctor purrs, closing the distance to capture Yaz’s bottom lip between pearly whites and bare a curious suck to the flesh. 

When Yaz lets out a surprised little noise from the back of her throat, the Doctor steps forward to press, flush, against her. “ _God.”_

This time, when their lips meet, neither hold back their curiosities, their urges, their needs. The Doctor moulds and fits against her as though it was _meant_ to be, hands shifting, noises drawn and swallowed with each new touch and dizzying sensation. 

When Yaz finally grants herself a taste, sweeping her tongue into her mouth with a hum, she finds only natural sweetness and the faint, but definitive tang of hope. 


End file.
